


Punch

by winchestersinthedrift



Series: wincest drabbles [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bunker Sex, Fingering, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e03 The Foundry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8470693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/pseuds/winchestersinthedrift





	

Dean’s just standing in the shower room when Sam comes in with a towel and a box of disposable razor heads and the toothpaste and soap and new sponges they’d picked up last week, so they wouldn’t run out with three people instead of four, so Mary could have her own sponge. He stands in the doorway with his hands full of toiletries and swears at the timing of it, and Dean finally turns and sees him and it’s like, it’s like Dean’s skin presses closer against his bones. 

‘Hey,’ Dean says, and doesn’t move. Both his hands are gripped right at the edge of the big sink, like he’s maybe holding it to the floor with his body weight, or maybe it’s holding him. He’s freshly damp, wearing an old pair of boxers, and when he turns away his head dips down, shoulder-blades drawing together. Taking a breath. Taking the punch. 

‘You wanna,’ he says, staccato effort, ‘watch tv,’ and something in Sam leans towards the forced normalcy of it, but that isn’t the something he wants, really, not most, not down in his bones, so he puts the stuff down, the razors and sponges and soap, and comes right up to Dean.

‘Dean,’ he says, and says it again, till Dean turns a little so they’re facing each other. Sam takes off his shirt, undoes two buttons and grabs the back, pulls it up over his head; steps out of his jeans. 

‘Sam,’ says Dean, spacey, on some kind of delay-track, ‘Sam, not - no, not, I dunno, we -.’ 

‘Come _here_ ,’ says Sam, takes the back of Dean’s neck in half of one of his hands and pulls him up and forwards, up into his mouth and kisses him open and loose and lots of tongue, pulls Dean into the softest sorest part of himself.

‘I just,’ says Dean, against Sam’s mouth, and Sam’s not sure if it’s for him, or not, ‘fuck, what the _fuck_ , Sam -’ and Sam lets his mouth slips sideways over Dean’s cheekbone and doesn’t say anything. He drags one of his hands down over Dean’s chest, slow, so a knuckle brushes gentle over Dean’s nipple.

‘I know,’ he says. 

There’s a second or two where they’re still, bent together like two great broken colossi, and then Dean gives a kind of deep shuddering breath and lifts his face up to Sam, kisses him back, fierce and wet, and Sam grabs him and backs him against the sink, presses him over it, presses back till Dean’s got his arms behind him, braced sharp on the back of the sink, and Sam’s got one arm under Dean’s hips, wrapped almost round the back of his waist, and the other hand up between Dean’s legs, up inside the ratty old shorts, and he fingers him slow and deep with the lube they hadn’t remembered yet to move out of the shower room cabinet. Two fingers, three, and Dean’s pushing himself up in an half-arch over the sink, triceps straining, face gone a little glassy and distant with pleasure, and Sam’s grunting hard, bent right against Dean’s torso, eyes up on his face, 

‘I love you,’ Sam says, three knuckles deep, without knowing he would; and Dean blinks and opens his mouth and comes, messy and shaking and looking, just looking at Sam.


End file.
